


Into the Blue

by staples



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Fake Dating, M/M, Mpreg, Schrödinger's Slash, Sharing a Bed, Washington Capitals, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staples/pseuds/staples
Summary: Tom wakes up in a world not so different from his own, except for where it really counts.





	Into the Blue

**Author's Note:**

> My New Year's resolution was to start cleaning out my WIPs folder of things that have been lingering for years... it's now May, but! It's done! Finally! In no small part thanks to Latta's very real [thirst](https://68.media.tumblr.com/7ce11f5377ed765c277400b3ad137221/tumblr_oppbvuggET1r8jg9po1_540.png) and [baby](https://www.instagram.com/p/BTz3vDUB_Yb/) [fever.](https://a.disquscdn.com/uploads/mediaembed/images/3862/8244/original.jpg?w=800&h)
> 
> Some dates and box scores got nudged, but, well, alternate universe. Andre also doesn't live with Tom anymore, but, well, I wanted him to. The real wives, girlfriends, and children of several players are mentioned by name, but never rise about being tertiary characters. Detailed warnings at the end. If none of that shakes you off, enjoy!

Tom doesn’t realize right away that anything is off. He wakes up in the condo, alone. His alarm is almost too easy to turn off, since he’d fallen asleep to the side instead of his usual bed-wide sprawl. The silence almost lulls him back to sleep, but habit gets him up and stumbling into his en suite. Even outside his room, the condo is disappointingly quiet. He goes about scrambling his own damn eggs, silently cursing Andre for choosing _today_ to not be a morning person.

When Andre doesn’t appear halfway through last night’s NBA highlights, Tom decides to be a good roommate and drag him up. He knocks twice, loud, on his door and yells, “Burky, buddy, you better be out of bed, because I’m not letting you make me late.”

There’s no response. No groans, arguments, denials, nothing. Tom waits another moment, then invites himself in, half expecting to find Andre buried alive under a pile of his own clothes. Instead, the room looks unlived in, unusually bare. His bathroom is the same, too, with nothing but the most basic toiletries visible. For a second, Tom worries that he’d forgotten about volunteering to let camera crews roam free again, but immediately dismisses the idea. Maybe Andre had cleaned up to invite someone over, but then he’d gone to her? It feels unlikely, with how late they got in last night, but Andre definitely isn’t in the condo.

Tom pulls out his phone. There’s a text from Mike that says **Went in for appt.** and, assuming he’s referring to his new team’s physical, Tom responds with a supportive thumbs-up emoji. To Andre, he sends, **Are you going to need a ride in from wherever you are?**

The response is quick: **??? I’m good**

Tom shrugs it off and goes back his routine, at a leisurely pace. It’s a slow morning, leading up to a mellow afternoon practice. On the ice, everyone feels a little slow, but Tom writes it off as jet lag. Nothing really snares until Nicky slides to a stop in front of him and asks, “How’s Michael doing?”

“Uh,” Tom says, caught off guard. “Alright, I guess? Going through a lot of change, you know.”

Nicky nods seriously, even though neither of them really know, since they haven’t been batted around from team to team like Mike has. He says, “Things should start evening out now. Tell him he can still call Liza whenever, since we’re practically useless at this stage.” Then he thwacks Tom lightly on his shin guards and skates off.

For a brief moment Tom is completely baffled, but after the last punishing drills and cool down and chirping the other guys and lunch and maneuvering around traffic (Andre disappears off on his own again), he completely forgets about Nicky’s weirdness.

That is, until he walks into his condo and discovers someone standing in his kitchen.

“Jesus shit,” Tom yelps, even as those bare shoulders and that ass click into place, even if the _why_ stays just as foggy.

Mike jolts, turns around, and then Tom has a whole new set of questions facing the front. He points, and tries not to yell, “What the _fuck?”_

He must know what Tom’s talking about, because he immediately folds his arms in front of himself, frowns, and says, “You said it wasn’t that bad!”

“ _What_ the _fuck_ is _that?_ ” Tom repeats, and Mike scowls harder.

 

* * *

 

“You’re _pregnant?”_

“Yes.” Mike looks surly, practically glaring at Tom from where he’s curled into the couch, legs tucked up. “This really shouldn’t be this hard to grasp.”

As much as Tom wants to argue, insist on this being an increasingly stupid prank, he couldn’t deny the evident bump in Mike’s stomach. Everything Mike’s done in the last five minutes to minimize it—a baggy hoodie that was definitely Tom’s, shoulders slouched, arms curled protectively in front of him—just manages to make it more real. They already pasted the “Just fucking Google it!” phase. Tom had only made it to pictures of a waddling Trudeau before he tossed the phone and turned back to Mike.

There is a baby inside one of his best buddies.

“So, uh,” Tom swallows. “This one of those Virgin Mary situations?”

“Did you hit your head particularly hard during practice?” Mike counters, sharp. Fair enough. Tom knows he should stop poking, Mike’s already being squirrelly as shit, but he's just gotta ask—

“So, like, who’s the dad? Or, uh, other dad?” Mike just stares, red-faced. The bottom drops out of Tom’s stomach. _“What?”_

Mike rolls his eyes. “It’s not _yours_ yours. I don’t know what your deal is, but you’re definitely not my Tom.” He doesn’t look at Tom as he says this, opting to stare out the window and tug at the string of not _Tom_ Tom’s hoodie.

“Right,” Tom says. “Well. I’m going to go take a nap. With any luck, your Tom will be returned within the next couple hours.”

 

The bed in the room Tom woke up in is hard, Tom realizes. More like the sort of poorly disguised brick that Mike prefers.

A nap seems more unlikely by the second. Tom rolls over and grabs the phone. It’s not really snooping if his own thumbprint unlocks it, he figures.

In most ways, Other Tom seems a lot like Tom: same passwords, same people in his contacts, same posts on social media. The only major difference is more Mike, everywhere, even more than when they were really into the #CapsRoomies thing. Tom keeps scrolling through pictures Mike shouldn’t be in, until he hits one on Instagram from a few summers ago that stops him quick. It’s of him and Mike, neither of them looking at the camera, tangled together and radiating the sort of intimacy that makes Tom wonder why he’d ever post this online. It’s captioned, _So incredibly grateful to have this strong, brave, beautiful person in my life. Nothing could make me love you less_

Tom shuts the app and drops the phone.

Okay, so him and Mike are really together in this universe. They do not try to hide it, and that apparently isn’t a big deal. Their baby probably isn’t a fluke, or an attempt to appeal their brand towards maternal demographic. Okay.

It was probably rude to run out on a pregnant person then steal their bed, Tom realizes.

He slowly gets up and and wanders back down the hallway. He finds Mike sprawled out on the sectional, the hoodie tugged up to let his fingers can trace over barely-there swell of his stomach. When he looks up at Tom, Tom can literally see the hope drain from his face. It’s lucky that this Mike knows other Tom so well, honestly. Anyone else would probably just have skipped to institutionalizing him.

“So,” Tom says, settling in the corner farthest from Mike. “Uh. How far along are you?”

Mike sighs deeply, then says, “Eighteen weeks.”

“No fucking way,” Tom blurts out, thinking back to the last time one of his cousins was pregnant. “You’re _barely_ showing.”

It probably isn’t the right thing to say, with how Mike immediately yanks down his hoodie and replies with a curt, “Thanks.”

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. This whole new universe thing is messing with me, alright? I don’t really get how things work here. In general,” Tom says.

“Apparently you’re doing fine, since no one noticed at practice,” Mike replies, still not looking at Mike. God, when has being around him ever been this frustrating?

“Mike, you don’t even _play_ here anymore where I’m from,” Tom blurts out, desperate. The disorientation is fading, but there’s still the pressing knowledge that he is missing a whole lot of information. “I’m sorry that I jumped in here uninvited, but I didn’t do it on purpose, and I _really_ don’t want to get locked up by the CIA when it comes out that I’m not of this world because I didn’t know Andre has two dads or Alex had octuplets during the last lockout or whatever. What am I supposed to say if my mom calls—”

 _"Nothing._ Well, I mean, yeah, talk to your mom. I love your mom. But I do not need our parents nosing into this," Mike blurts out, gesturing at himself. The room goes quiet for a moment longer, and there’s tension thick enough to cut through. Finally, Mike continues quietly, “We’re not together there?”

There are a couple ways to interpret that question, but Tom ignores one to answer, carefully, “You signed with the Kings last summer. Then you got traded to Chicago. Rockford. Do you, uh, still play here?”

 _“Yes,”_ Mike snaps, because apparently Tom is incapable of not stomping on his toes in this universe, before falling silent for a long moment. His hand glances on his stomach, then drops next to his side. He rolls his shoulders and says, “Well, I’m on leave now. Obviously. But I’m going back as soon as I can.

“I don’t know what could be different here. There aren’t, like, a whole lot of guys like me. No one else on the team or their parents, I don’t think. Maybe a few brothers? A couple of our friends. If Matt texts you about another pregnancy scare it’s not a joke,” Mike offers up, finally.

“Oh, god, Matt can’t have a _baby,”_ Tom says, agast.

That gets a laugh, at least. Mike seems to relax a little, but Tom can still see mountains of uneasiness. “Yeah, that’s the general agreement. Uh, sorry for being a dick. I just… really am not into getting ditched right now.”

“Hey, no, I’m not going anywhere,” Tom says.  “I mean, unless you want me to, but you’re still one of my best friends where I’m from. I wouldn’t leave you alone and pregnant, especially not when it’s, like, kind of my kid. ” It’s weird to say out loud, but Tom still feels like it’s true, as long as he’s occupying where their Tom should be.

“... Thanks, I guess.”

The rest of the night slides by uneventfully. Once you get past the whole baby thing, their arrangement doesn’t feel all that different from last season. Tom cooks enough for two (and then some, on a hunch) while Mike lounges around uselessly (but what a difference it makes, to have him around again). They even still have The Bachelor (there’s even a guy competing—he’s getting the about-to-be-eliminated edit, but Tom is still in awe).

When sleep starts tugging on Tom, he invites himself to where Mike's, and then Andre's, room is back home. Upon further examination, it’s definitely an actual guest bedroom here, instead of an unoccupied room with a bed in it. Tom’s starting to think they might have actually gotten a decorator at some point. There’s a lot more of the sort of artistic clutter Tom’s used to seeing in the married guys’ houses, and other stuff that Tom thinks he could even see himself buying. It’s both alien and comforting.

Out of curiosity, he peeks into the room they used to keep Burky in, too, on his way back from the bathroom. It’s completely barren.

 

* * *

 

Tom’s stay in the guest room is short lived.

At first, Tom tries to avoid the apartment. As much as him and Mike still _like_ each other, they don’t know how to deal with alternative versions of each other, either. Mike has stopped looking actively disappointed every time he sees Tom, but Tom still feels like an invader every time he lets himself in. So, he puts it off. He goes out with the guys as much as he would back home, if not more. It’s not like he tries to pick up or anything, just nurses a few beers until after Mike goes to bed most nights.

The team notices, of course. After about a week, Beags sidles up to him on the plane back from a quick New York trip and asks, “Hey, is everything alright?”

“What? Yeah, of course,” Tom says.

“It’s just that we’ve been seeing a lot more of your face. Not that it isn’t a handsome face but…” Jay trails off expectantly, then sighs when Tom doesn’t say anything. “Listen, I get the whole pregnancy thing can be scary—”

“It’s fine,” Tom interrupts. Is thus his life now, being talked at about Mike's pregnancy? “I’m fine, Mike’s fine. Sleeping a lot. I’m just trying to stay out of his way, you know?”

Jay frowns at that, but before he can say anything else, Tom jumps into the budding poker game. It proves to be a bad avoidance tactic.

“Mike has to be showing by now, right?” T.J. asks, a couple of rounds in.

“Not a whole lot,” Tom responds. He can feel Mike’s disapproval from hundreds of miles a lot.

T.J. nods knowingly. “It’s all the core strength, you know? One of the guys back in St. Louis, you totally wouldn’t have known for way longer than with Lauren. It was like fine, fine, fine, then—” he curls his fingers in and then pops them open, followed by jazz fingers—”Boom, big as a house.”

“Uh huh. I’ll make sure to pass that along,” Tom says. He raises on his next turn, since tells are apparently another thing that doesn’t change universe-to-universe.

Once they land, Tom follows the usual crowd out after, avoiding any concerned glances. Still, once they’re in an overly loud, flashy bar, Tom can’t get into it. He stays longer than he wants to out of sheer bullheadedness, proving a point to nobody but himself as he chokes down a drink or two and strikes up conversations with people who seem just as thrilled to be here as he is.

All it gets him, in the end, is being the only one sober enough or otherwise unoccupied enough to escort a very intoxicated Andre home. It’s not until they’re in the car, Andre somehow curling himself up until his head is resting on Tom’s arm, that Tom realizes he doesn’t know his address anymore. He’d been driving towards their apartment complex automatically, but Andre doesn’t live that close here. He might even live more into the city, now that Tom’s thinking about it. Tom panics, just a little. There’s no way of telling how weird it’d be to ask, or if Andre would even remember in the morning. It feels safer to just put him in the spare.

For some reason, Mike is still up when Tom gets back, sitting in the blue light of the television in his pajama pants. He looks up as the door opens, but Tom waves him off with his free arm before dragging Andre back into the guest room. After making sure he is sufficiently supplied to get through the night, Tom grabs some blankets and pillows from the closet before easing out of the room.

Mike’s still watching as Tom walks back out. He eyes the blankets and asks, “Where were you planning on sleeping?”

“The couch?” Tom says. They’ve had people sleep on it before, it’s pretty good for it.

“It’d be weird if he woke up and found you on the couch,” Mike points out. It’s true—they’re _together_ here, and Andre knows it. Right.

“Where do you suggest, then? The bathtub?” Tom asks.

Mike shrugs. “You can sleep with me, if you want. It’s a king. There’s plenty of space.”

Tom stares. He almost rejects on instinct, but… Mike’s right. It makes sense.

After dumping the blankets in a chair, Tom goes about getting ready for bed. He hesitates outside the master bedroom for a long moment, but when he walks in, Mike is already on his side with about five pillows jammed under him, facing away from Tom. He’s still too rigid to be asleep, but Tom still gets on his side carefully, pulling the blanket up over him. The silence stretches, tense. Eventually, Tom cracks, and asks. “Since when do you sleep on your side?”

“Since my organs started expanding and pressing into shit it shouldn’t,” Mike responds.

“Oh,” Tom says.

They’re quiet again, long enough for Tom to almost give up, when Mike says, “Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this… weird, for you? Everything here?”

Everything off in this universe boils down to Mike, and they both know that. The fact of their relationship, the baby, how everyone treats them—completely alien. And yet, it doesn’t feel _bad._ Maybe that’s Tom’s issue, how wrong this should feel but doesn’t. He responds, honestly, “Not too weird. Just, you know, different circumstances. It’s nice being around you again.”

Mike replies, softly, “Okay.”

 

The morning after is uneventful. Mike is still dead asleep when Tom wakes up. The pillows did their job of keeping him in place, more or less, but there’s still the telltale excess heat and blanket entanglement from sharing a bed. It’s a disorientating but not necessarily unpleasant way to start the day. He eases out of the bed and then the room gently, shutting the door softly behind him. Unsurprisingly, he’s the first one up. He considers making breakfast, then decides against it, opting to wait for people to join him.

It doesn't take too long. From his spot on the couch, Tom hears Mike beat Andre up, but he takes long enough in the bathroom that the first person Tom sees in Andre, sheepishly heading towards the door.

“Hey, bud, what’s the rush?” Tom asks, loud enough to make him jump. He turns, wide-eyed, to look over the kitchen island.

“Uh, you know, going home, using my own toothbrush,” Andre says.

“What? Nah, sit down, I’m making enough for all of us,” Tom adds, thoughtfully. He doesn’t know why Andre seems so hesitant. It’s not like he’s _that_ bad of a cook.

Tom wonders again when Mike wanders out, an old dev camp t-shirt that sags off his shoulders and is pulled tight over his stomach, and freezes when he sees Andre. It’s just for a second, before he slides into the seat next to him, but it’s enough to completely confuse Tom. They sit in silence until Tom’s serving up the eggs and ham, at which point Andre says, “No, ah, over easy today?”

“Mike can’t eat undercooked egg,” Tom says, and Mike shoots him a look. _What?,_ he mouths back.

“Oh, right. How is that going?” Andre asks, this time directed at Mike, face open.

“Fine,” Mike responds, shortly. “How did you get so trashed last night? You guys weren’t out that late.”

Andre groans and rubs his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. I was trying to keep up with this girl and she was just… a tank,” he says, with no small amount of admiration. From there on, breakfast is a little less tense, the three of them talking easily about the Caps, the rest of the league. Andre looks more alive by the time he’s ready to leave, even though the Uber charge back to his apartment sucks the vitality right back out of it.

The has been shut behind him for fifteen seconds when Mike asks, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Tom says.

“Are you sleeping with Andre? Back where you’re from?” Mike blurts out.

Tom chokes on his toast. _“What?_ No. I don’t—no. Me and Burky are just. No. Us getting together would never happen.”

Mike’s blushing at least, and he rubs at the side of his nose as he says, “Okay. You just… seemed closer. Sorry. That’s not really what I meant to ask. I just… are you single?”

“Um, yes?” Tom says. He doesn’t sound as sure as he’d like. Something for when-they’re-both-single, but, well, it’s in the name.

“And we’re close there? Really close?”

It takes Tom a few seconds to decide how to respond, but he goes for the truth. “Yeah. Best buddies.”

“Okay. So, you can tell me if this is too much, but, I haven’t really been able to sleep much? I’m exhausted all the time, but it’s like—” he huffs, frustrated, then cuts to the chase— “I’m not used to sleeping alone, when I’m already uncomfortable as shit. And I know we’re not like that for you but last night is the most I’ve slept since you got here, so, I was wondering, if it’s not too much to ask…” Mike trails off entirely, face beet red.

Tom isn’t sure how to respond at first. Something clicks into place, about Mike spending so much time hidden away in his bedroom. On one hand, their bed here sucks. Sharing sheets and alarm clocks and leg space sucks. On the other, it’s Mike. Pregnant Mike, whose baby daddy he has stolen.

Last night really wasn’t that bad. “Sure, Mike. No problem,” Tom says.

 

* * *

 

Comfort came easy between the two of them. Mike sleeps like the dead, at least with Tom there, and it’s not like Tom’s never shared a bed before. Hell, he’d even shared with _Mike_ before. His Mike. Living out of each other’s pockets isn’t new to either of them, so it makes sense, really, that it extends to easy morning routines, with Tom sprawled out on their bed while Mike kicks around the closet trying—and failing—to find something to wear. Tom has a harder time not watching him, half-dressed and throwing things on the floor as they disappoint him. He still looks strong, both bulky and sculpted as ever, even around the swell. It’s starting to seem so _natural_ to Tom, even if it still causes trouble for Mike—he tries to pull on a thin sweatshirt, before throwing it back off with a, _“Fuck!”_

It’s not the explosion Oshie warned Tom of, but Mike doesn’t make it much longer in normal clothes. His stomach is definitely more noticeable, crossing over from possibly bloated to definitely pregnant. His pants still fit, more or less, when they're slung low on his hips. The shirts, on the other hand, are starting to show strain, and Mike has spent the last few days endlessly tugging the hem down over the bottom swell of the bump, annoyed. Tom tried not to stare.

“Do we need to go clothes shopping?” Tom asks.

Mike grumbles for another minute, kicking through piles of clothes, before sighing and saying, “You don’t have to come.”

“What else would I be doing with my day?” Tom says. It’s true—he gets bored alone in the apartment, and he’s been trying to keep the reason for concern down among the other guys.

Mike hums, eyeing Tom’s sweatshirt. Tom groans. “But it’s _my_ comfy sweatshirt.”

“Well, technically—”

Which is how they end up in the parking garage, Tom a little cooler and Mike a little more clothed, trying to figure out the directions to a boutique Mike heard about from one of the other Caps baby mamas. “I can still drive, you know,” Mike finally says.

“Since when do you ever? Just be a good passenger and start navigating,” Tom responds, before turning on his driving playlist.

The boutique ends up being a bit further out in the suburbs, where the guys who worry about HOAs and elementary school rankings live. When they arrive, there are already a few aspiring Lululemon moms poking around. Tom diligently doesn’t think about the overlap between them and Mike. Him. _Them._ Whatever. They hover just barely within the threshold of the shop long enough to garner the attention of a sales associate, who bounces over and asks, brightly, “Good afternoon! Is there anything I can help you guys with?”

“Uh,” Mike says. “Mens section?”

She nods and starts leading them further into the store. “So, first pregnancy?”

“Yup,” Mike responds, unenthused.

“That’s so exciting! How far along are you?”

Mike breathes out slowly. “A little under twenty weeks.”

“ _Really?_ Oh my god, you’re still _tiny._ I know so many moms-to-be who would be so jealous right now,” she says, before coming to a stop in the back corner. “Alright, anything on these racks and that wall is all yours. Can you help you find anything in particular? Something Daddy would like to see you in?”

Tom has to fight hard to keep his face completely blank as the sales associate smiles playfully at him, before Mike says, loudly, “Daddy wants me to be comfortable. I think we got it from here, thanks.” Then he turns towards the racks, radiating his dismissal.

They go through their stock for a solid fifteen minutes. Now, Tom wasn’t going to say anything, but he’s unsurprised when Mike finally mutters lowly, “Who actually wears this stuff? Like, ‘oh, he’s a pregnant dude, he’s gonna love transparent flowery lace bullshit.' Do girls even like this?” Tom looks towards the women who were here first, and, despite the relative size of their section, they only seem to holding a few simple tank tops dresses. They’re enjoying each other’s company at least. Mike continues, “Fuck this.”

Mike grabs a pair of elastic waist jeans more or less at random, and they’re out the door in five minutes.

“So,” Tom says. “Does Costco have clothes? Walmart?”

“Or Target, whatever we hit first,” Mike confirms.

They do indeed hit a Target first, which works a little better for Mike. He gets a few essentials, the sort of lounge wear he likes and a decent button down, and it all costs less than the boutique jeans. They grab some snack food, too, and the DVD to a movie they both missed in theaters. It’s a good haul, in Tom’s opinion, but Mike still looks withdrawn by the time they get in the car.

“... Are you alright?” Tom asks, hesitantly.

Mike takes a long time to respond, and Tom’s thinking of the worst when he finally says, “I want cinnamon. Like, I want so much cinnamon I feel like it’s 2012 and I could do the cinnamon challenge. But I can’t even eat a goddamn apple pie from McDonald’s, because it gives me heartburn, which has _never_ been an issue before, but here I am, and for _what?”_

“The miracle of life?” Tom asks. Mike scoffs. Tom thinks for a minute, and then said, “I don’t know, what cancels out heartburn? Milk? You could mix the two, see how that works. Like horchata or something.”

Mike stares at him like he just solved one of life’s greatest mysteries and says, “I want horchata.”

“We can get horchata,” Tom says. Google finds a Mexican place immediately, of course, and a handful of minutes later Mike is like a kid in a candy store. Walking in triggers a whole wave of cravings in Mike, as far as Tom can tell, and they end up in a booth covered in what must be about half the menu.

“God, this is, like, pretty much exactly what the doctor told me to avoid. Don’t tell Saunders,” Mike says. He doesn’t sound guilty at all.

“What, _Sue_ is still in charge of your diet? Who gives a shit, honestly,” Tom asks.

Mike shrugs and pops a couple antacids. He reminds Tom, “Still on the team, technically.”

When the food arrives, they both go silent. It’s delicious, from what Tom can get of it. When he loses out on the last pupusa, Tom says, “So... you guys have any baby names picked out yet?

Mike shoots Tom one of his _looks,_ and says shortly, "Nope."

It's frustrating, trying to talk to him. They can only talk about their games for so long, and Mike seems stone set on sitting in silence rather than talking about the baby. Bits and pieces feel missing, like Tom doesn't know Mike as well here. It’s weird, imagining that Mike has a whole life away from him, the team, but he must. Grasping at straws, Tom finally asks, "What do you get up to when I’m not around?”

Mike swallows, hard, and this time he says, “Well, there are some away from the rink fitness I’m supposed to keep up. You know, modified, unofficial. And, um, I’ve been taking some classes out at George Mason while I’m out.”

“Really?” Tom says, maybe surprised than he should be. _“Nice._ I always mean to take some marketing classes or something online or over the summer, but I just never… that’s sick, man, congrats.”

“They’re just, like, basic level stuff. I don’t even know what I’m trying to do yet, but I figured I should be doing something,” Mike says, sounding a little bitter towards the end.

“Dude, you are _growing_ a _person,”_ Tom says. He feels repeating it all the time, like Mike doesn’t know. “And going back to school is really freaking impressive. Finish the damn pupusa and stop taunting me already.”

A few hours later, Mike is sprawled over the couch, completely incapacitated by the predicted heartburn. Between bouts of whining, he says, “I don’t think it was the horchata though. That was a good call.”

It was an afternoon well spent, all things considered.

 

* * *

 

There’s a game the next day, which means an early practice. By now, Tom clicks automatically.

The only difference with the guys is how much they still talk about Mike to him. It’s not like he’s completely gone from their consciousness back home, but, well. Things are different here. So different, in fact, that Tom isn’t sure how to respond when Ovi corners him in the parking garage, throws an arm over his shoulders, and says, “Willy. Is tonight the night Michael graces us with his glowing face?”

“Uh,” Tom starts. He feels like the answer should be _yes, obviously,_ but Mike hasn’t come yet, has he? “I mean, you’ll have to ask him, but probably same as usual?”

Ovi tsks. “Tell him the team cannot go this long without seeing him, alright? We are not above kidnapping.” He squeezes once, gives Tom a solid shake, and strides off.

The condo is empty when Tom gets back. Tom goes through his usual pregame schedule, takes a nap, and finds Mike out on the couch when he starts to head out, eating yogurt with a suspicious amount of brown powder mixed into it. Tom’s created a monster, honestly.

“You coming tonight?” Tom asks casually, but he feels like he knows the answer. Mike sinks lower into the couch and starts mumbling, like always does when he’s uncomfortable, but Tom catches that the response is negative. “Do you watch _ever?”_

“I mean, yeah, on TV,” Mike says, gesturing. Tom almost can’t believe it.

“Dude, since when do you willingly miss going to games?” And then, when that feels like too harsh of a judgment, Tom switches to, “Ovi asked about you earlier. All the guys miss you. The only reason they’re putting up with me is because apparently I’m their best link in.”

Mike huffs a laugh, and after a moment’s pause says, “It’s just weird. Like being really fucking injured, you know? You’re part of the team but not. And it’s more… I don’t know, I don’t like people speculating about this ‘injury’ when I go out.”

Tom stares, analyzing. “I’m pretty sure Craig and Joe B. won’t be analyzing your baby bump. Especially if you ask them. I mean, don’t come if you don’t want to, but the guys really do ask about you a lot. I’m already riding on a few lucky guesses.”

At that point, Tom drops it, because he doesn’t want to be strong-arming Mike into shit. He leaves a little while after, with an easy goodbye.

Going into the game, Tom feels jittery, a combination of his usual nerves and him still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Habs come out playing hard, scoring fast, but it’s a system Tom can match. He feels sharper, faster than usual, and it pays off late in the second when he pops the puck right over Price’s right pad, tying the game 2-2. Eller slams him into the glass, and, yeah, hockey is good all the time.

It’s less good when the other team nets one soon after, and the Caps spend the whole third period trying and failing to catch up.

In the locker room, things are initially tense the way it always is after a loss, but the feeling doesn’t linger. The reporters want to talk to Tom about his goal with the sort of zeal that makes him wonder what sort of numbers Other Tom was putting up, but they’re still satisfied by the usual canned answers. He takes his time afterwards, joking around with the guys and taking a long shower. By the time he leaves, the family room has a small crowd occupying it.

At the center of the crowd is Mike, looking a little overwhelmed, eyes catching on Tom’s. Tom shoulders his way to him, and Mike wraps an arm around his middle immediately, pulling him in. It’s startling for a second, until Tom remembers that’s what they are here. He returns the hug and shoves his face into Mike’s hair for a second. He uses the same shampoo. He says, “Hey. Glad you came.”

“Yeah, it’d been awhile,” Mike says, taking a half step back but reaching up to keep Tom’s arm over his shoulders. “You were great out there.”

“Not when it counted,” Tom says automatically, but honestly, he felt great. Like his legs are still solid under him. He looks around, and sees Lauren Oshie smiling at the two of them warmly.

“Really, Tom, thank you for letting him out of his cage,” she says. “A couple of us were thinking of getting dinner to celebrate, if you’re interested?”

“Uh,” Tom glances at Mike, who shrugs. “Sure, yeah, we’d love to.”

“Someone say dinner?” T.J. says, coming up from behind them. “Oh, hey, Mike! Awesome seeing you, you look great.” His hand lands softly on Mike’s stomach, for a second. Tom can feel Mike tense under his arm, before methodically unwinding.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, but the dinner ended up being a different group than Tom’s used to: the Oshies, obviously, along with Alzner and his wife, Holtby and his wife, and so on. Dinner is still nice, but, maybe because of crowd, Tom and Mike’s incoming kid still seems to be the center of discussion.

It’s Brandi who asks, “So, Mike, have you invested in a body pillow yet?”

“Nope,” Mike responds. “Has anyone had the duck here before?

“It’s a little greasy, just get the filet and call it a day,” Brandi says. “I cannot emphasize how much a body pillow will revolutionize the way you sleep. You _need_ one. Hell, I still sleep with mine, as a convenient contraceptive.”

Everyone chuckles, and Tom feels like the possibility of messing up split wide open. He barely understands pregnancy in chicks back hope, let alone _this._ Thankfully, Mike dedication to dodging questions is a universal policy, it seems. Tom follows his lead, and is once again thankful for the distracting power of The Bachelor and a person’s love for their own children. The meal doesn’t drag on for long, everyone else looking to free up their babysitter before it gets too late.

Tom has a good night, at least. The traffic back out of the city is blessedly low, and Tom settles down on the couch once they get home, even as Mike immediately starts getting ready for bed. He turns on a west coast game, volume on low, and, because he can’t help himself, starts picking through responses from tonight. There’s mindless picking over how they could have pulled off a win, which Tom mostly ignores, some high praise for Tom’s play, which makes him preen a little, even if he doesn’t love the absolute shock, and then something that stops him short. Mike sat up with the other scratched players, instead of the family room, and there was a screenshot captioned:

**_Getting knocked up and sitting for the season is the best thing Latta’s ever done for the Caps_ **

He knew that people _knew,_ but—  

Tom thinks back to Mike’s reluctance, how uncomfortable he’d seemed at times during dinner. There’s no way _he_ doesn’t know what people are saying, as he resolutely goes through his nighttime routine, phone cast aside.

Tom stares for a second, then blocks the asshole on Twitter without saying a word.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks, it occurs to him that this world’s season is slightly less… grueling, than the one he’s used to. At first, he thought it was just a lucky fluke in the schedule, a hot streak for him, some brief mercy from the training staff, but the longer it went the more it seemed the whole season looked intentionally lighter. It was the same for a few other teams he skimmed, too. Fit more better into a regular 9-to-5. Not perfect, but better. They have a California road trip coming up. Two games over a long weekend. No one is ever thrilled about time zone changes and living out of a hotel for that long, but the guys are all really complaining about it, especially the crowd Tom hangs out with here. It’s almost funny, and Tom is thinking about how to tell Mike about Nicky complaining that California is too far and too sunny and too sandy when it hits him— _Mike._

Now, obviously Mike can fend for himself. Tom’s life here isn’t much different than his actual life, so he probably doesn’t contribute much to their household, but he’s grown used to what he does do. Cooking for multiples. Running to the store. Being around Mike again. Waking up within arms reach of him because _, shit,_ Mike can’t sleep alone.

“Hey, Holts?” Tom interrupts. “What was that thing Brandi was talking about at dinner awhile ago that helped her sleep? Like a pillow thing?”

“Ah, the Snoogle,” Braden says knowingly. “Planning on getting Latts a backwards going away gift?”

“Yeah, I mean, he hasn’t always sleep great anyway, and it’s gonna be the longest I’ve been away in awhile…” Tom trails off, haltingly, but he just gets a couple hums of agreement.

“Ashley got really into white noise when she was pregnant with Brant,” Jay says thoughtfully. “And was also a huge fan of the Snoogle, yeah. Seriously, I’m _shocked_ you guys made it this far without one.”

Tom shrugs. “Mike’s not big on buying baby shit. Yet.” It feels overly intimate as soon as it’s out of his mouth, and he knows Mike would definitely consider the line crossed. Luckily, the conversation drifts along until it’s time for them to drive home to their people. Or make a stop at Babies R Us, in Tom’s case.

He still beats Mike home. It gives him time to plop down on the couch and start digging at his half thought out observation. By the time Mike gets back from wherever he goes, Tom’s read enough to say, “Crosby _would_ be able to get knocked up.”

Mike takes a second before responding with careful evenness, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Uh,” Tom says, backtracking. “Just that he has a lot of pull? I’ve been reading up on the CBA stuff here. It’s just… a lot different than how it is at home.” He couldn’t imagine his NHL ever being chill enough to let a guy take a year off to have a kid, he doesn’t say.

Mike grunts. “Paternal rights are from the lockout before he was drafted. A lot of guys were getting tired of being separated from their families.” He drops his bag and slides down into his side of the sectional—it’s the better side, but Tom’s definitely never fighting him for it. “Since when have we been a household that heaps praise on _Crosby?_ Jesus, you can go.”

Tom snorts, and the rest of day goes by uneventfully. By that night, Tom has forgotten about the Snoogle, until Mike’s yelling from their bedroom, “Dude, what the fuck is this?”

When Tom gets back to him, Mike has the him-sized, C-shaped pillow in his arms and swung around his neck. It seems to be annoying him more than anything. Tom starts, “Um, it’s a body pillow? Like, the guys said—”

Mike groans. “God, no, Tom. You can’t do this. You broke the seal. We don’t need them drowning us in totally necessary, their cousin swore by it, baby essentials.”

Tom frowns. “It’s not from them. I got it. For you. Since a lot of guys said it helped the person _they_ sleep next to every night.”

“Oh, what, so now you’re all sitting in a circle and talking about how terribly I’m dealing with being pregnant?” Mike says, face flushing.

“What? Dude, _no._ I’m friends with a bunch of dads here, we talk about dad stuff. I asked because I, like, wanted you to still be comfortable when I’m gone on this road trip, and they already know this shit and want to help. I don't see what's wrong with that,” Tom says, completely confused and trying not to be annoyed. “And no one thinks you’re shitty at being pregnant. I think you’re doing fine. Great.”

Mike stares at him for a long minute, and then says, “I’m not using this.”

“Fine. You don’t have to,” Tom says, bewildered that _this_ is an argument they're having. Mike brushes past him to dump the Snoogle in the guest room. Tom goes back studying the Kings’ home game.

 

The next night, Tom is slowly being leached during another round of poker when he gets a text: **You were right about the pillow. Still miss you**

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon practice after Tom returns from the road trip, Mike goes to follow him out the door. Tom stares, long enough for Mike to shift uncomfortably. “Still part of the team,” Mike reminds him.

“No, yeah, for sure,” Tom says quickly, starting towards the elevator again. “It’s just a first, you know, and I’ve been here awhile.”

Mike shrugs. “I had another prenatal appointment a few days ago.”

“Oh!” Tom says, and then when Mike doesn’t say anything, he gives an extra prod, “So… how did that go?”

“Uh, uneventful. They pretty much just check the heartbeat and weigh me,” Mike replies.

“Uneventful’s good, right?” Tom says, continuing his side business of pulling teeth.

“I mean, yeah. They’re both where they’re supposed to be. Now I have to talk with Mark and Sue and them to make sure I’m on track on their end, too. Well. More like dialing things back, probably,” Mike says.

Tom hums. Mike hasn't said too much, but Tom suspects that the pregnancy is starting to get at him, physically. He's been doing things more gingerly, slower to get up and do things. “Maybe get a massage out of it, too?”

Mike groans. _“Please.”_

During practice, they mostly keep Mike in with the rest of the guys, except for when they hit the ice. Everyone keeps leaving a space for Mike next to Tom or vice versa—another weird little thing that makes nostalgia hit low in Tom’s stomach—but there’s enough room for Mike to catch up with the guys, too. Tom wouldn’t have said anything, but it makes him happy to see Mike in the fray. He hasn’t been _worried,_ they have other friends and it’s not like Mike isn’t keeping himself busy, but six months is a long time to be away from everything. It’s just a nice feeling, seeing everyone together.

Tom gets pulled aside to go over some tapes that aren’t even him, really, and after he finds Mike and Andre sitting in the trainer’s room, Mike eating peanut butter out of the jar with a banana. He arrives just in time to see Mike’s eyes glaze over as Andre says, “—And they have this sundae that’s, like, _on_ french toast? It’s so good, man, I almost ordered two.”

“Shit, Burky, what are you doing to me?,” Tom says, not even bothering to sound all that off-put. He hops up onto the bench next to Mike and breaks off the next bit of the banana. He gets a heel to the shin for his efforts.

“We’re going,” Mike announces. “Right now.”

“Yes, dear,” Tom says. “You coming, Andre?”

For some reason, the invitation seems to a real surprise. That, more than anything else, is the weirdest thing about this universe. “Uh, well, if you want—”

Tom scoffs. “Of course we want you to. I need a new navigator, anyway.”

“Pregnancy brain is real and I’m not sorry,” Mike says.

Tom pats his knee reassuringly and says, “Really, though, it’d be chill to catch up. We need to talk to someone who can be chill about babies for five minutes.” The last bit gets an enthusiastic nod from Mike, and with that, Andre has been convinced.

They end up following Andre has he drives to their new favorite diner. It has all the served-all-day, dessert-for-breakfast-for-lunch meals a person could want and then some, and Tom knows there’s no way he’s sticking to the diet plan before he even gets past the first page. The others follow suit, unsurprisingly. Their table is soon overflowing, and Tom doesn’t think any of them could be more satisfied. It’s a good afternoon, and they linger long after the last of Mike’s ice cream melts. The sun almost beats them home, by the time they separate.

“That was nice,” Mike says, once they’re in the car. He almost sounds surprised.

Tom hums in agreement, and asks, curious, “Who does Andre usually hang out with?”

Mike shrugs. “The Swedes, the young guys, you know.”

It takes a valiant effort to fight off the urge to point out they should be part of the young guys, instead saying, “Huh. Well, back where I’m from, the three of us were really tight. Like, he lived in the apartment with us for a year.”

Mike snorts. “Where’d he sleep, the _nursery?”_

Tom thinks of the empty room across from the guest room and says, “Um, yeah? I guess so. Obviously that didn’t happen here, but,” Tom shrugs, “I dunno, I like the guy. I think it’d be worth being close to him here, too, outside of team things.”

Neither of them say much else during the ride home. Once they arrive, Mike settles on the couch to do some of his homework, feet propped up on Tom’s lap, but it doesn’t take long for the gastrointestinal issues to rear their head once more. He fights it for maybe an hour, before casting his laptop to the side with a groan. “Tom,” he says. “This is the worst. Why did any version of you let me do this? _Any_ of this.”

It’s become something of a nightly ritual, and Tom’s formulating a unique apology when Mike huffs hard, again, and yanks up his shirt. His stomach is swollen, tight beneath his abdominal muscles, and as Tom looks, a little _bump_ appears up against the surface for a fraction of a second. “You had to impregnate me with a kick boxer. _Weeks,_ I have to deal with this,” Mike says, accusatory.

“Holy shit,” Tom says, staring hard for another glimpse. “Oh, sorry, can they hear yet?”

“Yeah. Pretty well, apparently,” Mike says, staring down as well. His face shifts, softens, before he says, “Um, do you want to feel it?”

Tom practically jumps forward, but he’s gentle, slow as he lowers his hand to the right of Mike’s newly-outie belly button. He doesn’t feel anything at first, until Mike grabs onto his wrist and guides his hand lower. After that, it only takes a few more seconds before he feels something—their _baby_ —push back against his hand.

It feels like sunlight crackles open and pours everywhere inside him.

“Wow. Hello, little guy,” Tom says. There’s another kick, only he could swear this one felt stronger. He repeats, “Holy shit.”

 

* * *

 

Vince Backstrom is teething. He is handling it as well as the offspring of Mean Lars could be expected to, that is to say, poorly. There’s a whole lot of wailing and a sudden drop in sleeping, and with the urge to put everything in his mouth and gnaw comes an actual illness, which results in even more tears and fevered nights and endless diaper changes.

But the point is, no, Nicky didn’t catch last night’s game, but what do you think of the Wizards’ chances postseason? Bogdanovic’s been killing it so far, eh?

Tom is in a panic. He’s panicking. There are a lot of very chill things about this universe, but a sick baby is not one of them. Playing hockey, hanging with the guys, is what he’s always done, and Mike is… Mike, so it’s no real trial to live with him again, either, even pregnant.

But a _baby._

“How am I supposed to take care of a _baby?_ They have soft spots, and their immune systems barely work at first, and can’t do anything to protect themselves. I mean, fuck, Lyla’s organs were straight up _outside of her_ _body,_ ” Tom is babbling into the couch, trying to explain to a very confused Mike why he came back white as a sheet of paper.

“... I can’t do anything about most of that, but the baby’s fine. Look—” Mike pushes himself off the couch and walks over to their overflowing desk, pulling out a folder near the top. In it is a small pile of medical forms and a series of black and white photos. Usually, Tom can’t make out anything on these things, but here he can plainly see a head, arms, legs, tiny features. Mike says, “These are from my anatomy scan, the day you got here. That’s when they catch things like Lyla’s condition, and a bunch of others. My doctor hasn’t found anything.”

Tom’s chest hurts, looking at looking at the photos. To his side, Mike takes a deep breath and says, “Listen, if you don’t think you can be around for this, healthy baby or not, I won’t hold it against you. You didn’t ask for this. I can say I cheated or something and the baby’s not yours, and you’d be off the hook.”

“Jesus,” Tom mutters lowly. “Why didn’t you show me this before?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom sees Mike lift a shoulder before he says, “I don’t know. You’ve never been that interested in the medical side of things.”

Tom’s mind is churning, over the empty nursery and preschools and Mike always holding a step away and years of long nights ahead of them, and says, “I’m sorry, please don’t take this the wrong way, but am I a shitty dad? Or your Tom? Because I can’t imagine putting this kind of _distance_ between me and the person who’s having my kid, the reality of it—” his voice cuts out, and he drops his head in his hands, fingers clenching in his hair.

Mike is silent for an eon, long enough that Tom is getting ready to just lock himself in the guest room for the rest of the day, before finally saying, strained, “I had a couple miscarriages before this one. It happens a lot with guys, but each one was hard on the both of us. Really hard. We want this kid, but I think we subconsciously tried not getting too attached. I can promise you, it’s easier to look it than feel it. He’ll make a great dad. You will be, too, whenever it happens. Pregnancy has just been fucking terrifying, for us.”

“Fuck. I'm sorry,” Tom says finally. He raises his face out of his hands, eyes burning red. It hurts to look at Mike, but it’s necessary, to see the vulnerability there. He reiterates, “I can’t—I’m not going to leave you, unless you want me to.”

This isn’t how Tom imagined the end of his bachelorhood, not this quickly and not to another guy, but he can’t find it in him to want anything else.

 

* * *

 

Andre gets a puppy. He sends the first photos out in the Caps’ GroupMe, and Tom learns about it when Mike suddenly jerks, rolls over his Snoogle, and shoves his phone in Tom’s face. _“Andre_ got a _puppy,”_ he says.

Tom squints at the screen and the row of black blobs dominating it. He says, “That’s nice?”

It’s later in a Saturday afternoon, after practice and both of them doing chores like adults. They were _supposed_ to settling down for a nice pre-dinner nap. Instead, Mike levies himself out of bed. Tom mourns every inch of skin that gets covered back up, but isn’t particularly surprised when Mike announces, “We’re going.”

Andre’s apartment is aways away, more into Georgetown, but Mike and Tom are the first to make it there. He doesn’t seem at all surprised to have him at his doorstep, even if actually entering is made difficult by the squirming mass around his ankles. Upon closer inspection, the dog seems to be mostly lab, but Tom wouldn’t be shocked if there was some boxer or something in there, too.

She’s absolutely adorable. Mike lowers himself all the way to the floor to truly bask in her glory, and everyone follows. “What’s her name?” Mike asks, in awe as he teases her around in circles with his fingers.

“Kino,” Andre says proudly, which rings familiar in Tom. “I figured since everyone is getting married or having babies, I should have a little family of my own, you know?”

Tom fights off his first reaction, which feels an awful lot like a lecture about the responsibilities of pet ownership, and tones it down to, “You bringing her home over the summer?” It feels like bad luck, talking about the end of the season, but Caps are still thriving, so Tom doesn’t feel too bad.

Andre waves off the question. “My roommate is staying to take summer classes, she’ll watch him.”

 _“Roommate?”_ Mike and Tom both repeat, looking around like she’ll magically appear. It’s Tom who goes on to say, “How have we not met her before?”

“She’s really busy,” Andre says, but he’s blushing, so Tom makes a mental note to dig further at a later date.

“Tom, we’re getting a dog,” Mike says, ignoring them both to watch Kino gnaw on his fingers.

“Does our complex allow dogs?” Tom asks.

“Fuck,” Mike says, heartfelt. “We need to move.”

Tom laughs. “Yeah, nevermind school districts or child friendly neighborhoods, what’s really important here is that our kids can grow up with dogs.”

Mike nods, gesturing between the two of them, a “thank god we get each other.”

They talk, taking turns playing with Kino until she passes out in Mike’s lap. It’s the cutest thing Tom has ever seen, which might be why Mike sounds so heartbroken when he says, “I need to pee. Someone help me up.”

Kino gets shifted into Andre’s lap, and Tom helps Mike overcome his new center of gravity. While they wait for his return, Tom and Andre relocate onto the couch, Kino cradled in Andre’s arm as he says, “Hey, Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“You and Mike have been together… four years?”

The number hits him like a shot of adrenaline. It’s never really been brought up before, but… “Yeah, give or take.”

“And it’s good?” Andre asks, and Tom wonders about the Georgetown student Andre has squirrelled away somewhere.

“Yeah,” Tom says. “It’s work, but it’s good.”

 

That night, their game against the Preds is a grind. The teams are well-matched, and the shots on goal just barely trickle in. Frustration boils over into hits, the type of play Tom hadn’t so much depended on recently. Dropping the gloves against Watson comes almost as a surprise—one Tom wins handedly, but it’s the concept of it all.

Still, the Caps never manage to get back any steam after Connolly’s goal in the first, and the game ends in overtime without them getting a shot off. The locker room is tense, after. Tom’s happy to leave and find Mike afterwards.

“Hey,” Tom says, drawing him in for a close hug automatically.

“Hi. You were a beast out there,” Mike responds, staying close. When Tom scoffs, he says, “No, I mean—” he grabs onto Tom’s right hand and brings it up to eye level. It’s red, throbbing, and Tom holds his breath as Mike kisses it gently, innocently.

“Ah, well,” Tom says, strangled. “That’s basically what I do.”

Mike raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

They get interrupted by the Carlsons, who claim Mike has been avoiding them. Lucca’s adorable and the conversation is pleasant; Gina says something about stretch marks, and Mike says something about coconut oil, and they’re good for a solid ten minutes. It’s nice. Domestic. Tom squeezes Mike closer, and gets squeezed in return.

 

* * *

 

On the two month anniversary of Tom sliding into a new universe, he gets woken up in the middle of the night by Mike jumping out of bed. He slams the bathroom door closed behind him. Not unusual by itself, but there’s an edge of franticness to that makes Tom sit up and turn on a lamp.  He stares after Mike for a second before glancing to where he was lying moments before. Then he does a doubletake.

There, in the middle of the bed, lies a wet, dark spot the size of a fist.

Tom goes cold. _No._ Fuck, no, this can’t be happening. He slides out of the bed numbly and knocks on the bedroom door. “Mike?”

“I’m fine,” Mike snaps, strained and breathless. It hurts. Tom stands there uselessly for a long minute, waiting for Mike to add more, or, Tom doesn’t know, collapse or something. When it’s clear there’s nothing he can do here, and he steps away. In a daze, Tom strips off their sheets. He has to Google how to get rid of blood stains. The cold water is still running when his phone buzzes: **Can you bring me a pair of my briefs**

Tom scrambles to follow through. In the bathroom, Mike is sitting on the toilet, bent over. It’s hard to look at him, the vulnerability in this moment so intimate it’s hard to swallow. Tom would feel terrible for anyone, but this is _Mike,_ his _kid—_  

Mike sniffs hard, stands up, and says, “We need to go to the ER. Right now.”

They’re in the car less than five minutes later, clothes thrown on haphazardly. Tom drives well above the speed limit the entire way. He can’t stop looking at Mike, pale, breathing with forced ease, hands holding tight across his stomach.

The ER doesn’t make them wait long. Mike gets put through intake quick, and no one questions Tom trailing after him. He is the dad, after all, as far as anyone in this world is concerned. For once, Tom doesn't even question it. Once they’re in a room, it takes awhile for a doctor to show up. Tom makes a weak crack at American healthcare. Mike breathes. They’re both silent after that.

At some point, Mike’s hand ends up in Tom’s. He still feels so strong, vital. His grip tightens when someone walks in.

It’s an older woman who introduces herself as Jana, with the sort of aggressively soothing voice all medical people have. Jana informs them that she’s there to take the ultrasound, and has Mike answer a bunch of questions he’s already answered while Tom sits there and feels guilty for not knowing all of this, too. Once the ultrasound actually starts, Jana makes mostly one-sided small talk, until finally turning the monitor towards them and saying, “Alright, first things first, right here—” she points—”We have a strong, healthy heartbeat.”

Tom’s knuckles crack under the pressure of Mike’s squeeze, before his entire body relaxes.

“Decent movement, no damage to the placenta, no issues with the umbilical cord,” Jana continues. “We’ll have to do a few more exams to count everything out, and we’d like to keep you overnight to observe you both, but it appears so far that the bleeding didn’t signify any severe issues.”

“So, what? It was just a false alarm?” Tom blurts out, both achingly relieved and disbelieving.

Jana smiles blandly. “Pregnancy can be messy.”

“Can you—” Mike starts, before his voice breaks. His face doesn’t hide a thing, all his relief and anxiety and fear and _hope_ lying bare. “Can you see what gender they are? My OB said the position was wrong at my last ultrasound and I just…”

The technician's face softens a fraction. She turns back, and it isn’t long before she announces, “Okay, see the lines right there?" She clicks a few more times, the mouse pointing and circling on the screen. "Congratulations, you’re having a baby girl.”

After that, Jana makes quick work printing out sonograms for the doctor, and another for Mike. Tom’s heart swells until it feels like it could burst, watching Mike hold the image so carefully, his face as he looks at his kid—  

Tom squeezes his hand gently, and Mike’s head jerks up, surprised, like he forgot Tom was even still there. He stares for a long second, before his face completely crumples and flushes red.

“Woah, hey,” Tom says, panicked, as he jumps out of his seat.

 _“Don’t,”_ Mike says forcefully, freezing Tom half-hovering above him. He takes a few watery gulps, before croaking, “Fuck, I know it’s not your fault, you've been great, but you shouldn’t _be here._ I thought for a second, back at the condo, that maybe the universe brought you here so my Tom wouldn’t have to watch me lose another one, but—it’s not right, for you to be here for this instead of him. I miss him so fucking much.”

It hurts, deeper than Tom would’ve thought possible.

He still stays at Mike’s side for a long while, silent. The tears dry up, even as the sentiment stays thick in the air. Jana comes back with a doctor, who doesn’t give any new information but confirms an observation period and the possibility of bedrest. Eventually, a nurse stops by and asks Tom if he wants a cot for the last few hours of the night.

“You should get some real sleep, still have to go to work in a few hours,” Mike says. It’s a gentle dismissal.

“Okay,” Tom responds with forced ease, standing. “Call me if you need anything, alright?”

Mike nods once, staring at the wall, away from Tom.

The sky has just started to lighten, and the roads heading into D.C. are already starting to get crowded, so Tom sticks to sideroads. Tiredness has transformed into a deep ache, but he knows sleep won’t come. He goes back to the condo because it’s too early for anyone to be at Kettler. The emptiness feels stark when he walks in, even though he’s been alone there plenty before. Hell, he lived alone for _months_ without it being much an issue, with Mike on the other side of the continent, but now being the one who is sent away, with him just a couple blocks away in a hospital bed, is unbearable.

Tom shakes his head hard, once. He could maybe make a halfway decent breakfast if the fog rolled back.

It doesn’t. Even through practice, he feels off-kilter, can’t make a pass connect or hear a word of what the coaches are saying to save his life. Eventually, he’s sent off to bike the rest of practice, and he welcomes the mindless pedaling.

That’s how TJ, already out of his gear, finds him, sweat-drenched and legs trembling. Tom slows to a cooldown, figuring he missed someone’s call. “Hey, you alright?” TJ says, concern evident on his face.

“Yeah, fine,” Tom says. It feels short, but Tom doesn’t know what else to say.

TJ stares at him, long enough to unsettle, before saying, “Mike was texting Lauren this morning from the _hospital?_ I know you’re having a hard time processing everything, but you really didn’t have to come in today—”

 _“He_ wanted me to,” Tom snaps. He pulls his t-shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face. It’s wet enough to be effectively useless, but it gives Tom a second to compose himself. It still comes out bitter. “I don’t know how much he told you guys. Last night was scary, but the doctors said him and the baby are both fine, so there was nothing I can do for them.”

“Woah, hey, okay.” TJ steps up to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, ignoring all the sweat. “I get it, alright? Every dad in this room felt out of control at some point, and we’re here for you. It’s great that they’re doing good. Don’t beat yourself up too hard.”

“Thanks, Teej,” Tom says. It’s a nice sentiment, even as it makes the feeling of _imposter_ grow even larger within him. He gets off the bike, legs a little wobbly, showers, get dressed. In the parking lot, he texts Mike, mostly out of reflex: **Do you want me to pick you up something?**

The reply takes a stressful couple of minutes, but the response is long. It takes a few stops, but Tom carries the bags in like an admission ticket. Mike looks better than he had that morning, and he’s thrilled to see the food, at least. He finishes one burger and is doing something unholy with french fries and Nutella when he mumbles, “Sorry for using you as a delivery service.”

“Stop, I told you you I’d do anything while I was here,” Tom says, tired. He adds, “I would fix everything, if I could.”

“I know. You’re a good guy,” Mike says. He still sounds miserable, and the weight of that _if_ hangs heavy in the room. After taking a bite of the second burger, Mike says, “So, uh, the bleeding didn’t actually go on for that long last night. They said I can probably be released tonight, as long as me and the baby keep not showing any symptoms.”

“So she’s still doing good?” Tom asks

Mike takes a minute to answer, chewing slowly. “Yeah, she’s good. They thought she might have been a little sluggish last night, but she was probably just asleep, since the kicking boxing has returned. I’m a couple weeks past viability, anyway. Even if something went wrong… she’d probably make it. I’m having this kid.”

He seems to say it mostly to himself, nodding at the end. Tom’s heart hurts, in the best and worst ways. “That’s fucking amazing, Mike. Do you, uh, want company until they let you out?”

“I told some of the guys they could stop by. You don’t have stay, if you don’t want,” Mike says.

“Do you want me to leave?” Tom asks again. He prepares for a repeat, but instead Mike shakes his head once.

He replies, “No. I just—I really don’t want to take any of this out on you. It’s been nice having you around, for the most part. Last night was just… hard.”

The worst of it eases after that, but Tom can’t get the image of him last night out of his head, how completely heartbroken he was, even once a few of the guys stop by. Mike takes up most of the entertaining, repeating what he told Tom, even letting Andre feel the baby’s kicks. He looks so much better than last night that Tom can’t help but believe in him.

It’s deep into the evening when Mike finally gets discharged. After getting a folder to pass onto Mike’s regular OB, who he was another appointment with in a few days, Tom drives them home. They stop for a small mountain of Italian food, most of which is for Mike. The rolls are gone before they pull into their complex’s parking  garage, and the alfredo only lasts longer because Mike wants to mix cinnamon into it.

“You have to stop this, man, it's just not natural,” Tom says automatically. Mike shrugs, unbothered, and shovels another forkful into his mouth.

Tom finishes the rest of his chicken cacciatore in relative silence. The rest of their night goes in a similar fashion, eased by routine. Still, the sense of _wrongness_ doesn't dissipate. Tom crawls into bed behind Mike and feels every bit of the imposter that he is.   

Before, in his own world, Tom couldn't have imagined settling down at twenty-three, let alone becoming a father. They were the sort of distant goals he thought he'd eventually grow into, once he was old and wise and stable. Here—Tom knows he could, if another two months passes and he’s still here. It's terrifying, knowing that he has so few of the answers, but there's a growing tug in his stomach that _yearns_ for this family, him and Mike and their baby.

It wouldn't be fair, is the thing. Not fair for Mike to lose the guy he fell in love with, and not fair to Other Tom to lose his daughter, all so Tom can reap the benefits of a life he was too chickenshit to pursue himself.

Tom sidles a little closer under the sheets to let his knuckles brush the small of Mike's back. Tomorrow, he vows, tomorrow he will find a way back. Whatever it takes.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Tom wakes up comfortable. He almost lets himself get lulled back to sleep, warm and thoroughly cushioned, sprawled over the entirety of his bed. Then he jerks, opens his eyes, and sits up.

It's bizarre how alien his own room can look.

His phone is plugged in where it always is. The date says it's still late March, so, barring an actual coma, Tom wasn't hallucinating. And that someone else—Other Tom—had probably taken his spot.

A frantic Google search of his own name reveals nothing noteworthy. His play had apparently been way down and even more prone to frustrated penalties, which means people are calling for his head on a platter, but there's nothing about him claiming to have knocked up Mike, so Tom can't hold too much against Other Tom. He keeps poking around in his phone, trying to find any other signs of Other Tom’s influence. It doesn't take long to get to his and Mike’s text messages; Mike is his most recent contact. The conversation goes:

_Can I call you in the morning?_

**Hasn't stopped you before**

_You can tell me to fuck off_

_It's fine_

**Kidding. It's really not a problem. Talk to you tmrw**

And then stretches back far enough that Tom gives up back reading. There's nothing too incriminating, but he’s not sure if him and Mike were on this level before. Close, for sure, but not really type to be texting back and forth all day. Nerves light up in his stomach, his fingertips, and he barely thinks before dialing the phone. It rings long enough to make Tom doubt himself, or wonder if Mike is still a sleep, before the dial tone catches and is replaced by a low voice groaning, “I’m really not into you turning into much a morning person, Grumpy.”

Tom’s heart clenches. “Uh, hey, Mike. This is kind of a weird question, but have I been acting… odd, recently?”

Mike doesn't speak for a long moment, before he says, “What, you mean like you thinking I was playing runaway bride and took off to give birth to our kid in Waterloo? Yeah, that came up once or twice.”

“Shit. Okay. Sorry about that, I guess,” Tom says, dropping his head into his hands. He can only imagine, Other Tom getting his emotions everywhere. On the ice is one thing, but this is _personal._

“It wasn't so bad. You were about as much of a jerk as usual, which I thought was unfair on account of the cross-universal knocking up. Did you guys, like, trade spaces? Did you meet pregnant me? What was it like? Was I glowing?” Mike asks. It catches Tom off guard, how casually he brushes past what was definitely more than _knocking up._ They didn't have regular morning phone calls or whatever else so Other Tom could check in on Mike's continued lack of a uterus. Tom gets a sudden, intense spike of jealousy, that Other Tom keeps being able to dig up these old threads and hold on tight to them.

But this isn't quite the same, is it? If there was anything to unbury here, Tom was the source. With a sudden spike in bravery, Tom lets his mouth fall open.

“You had a very complicated relationship with heartburn,” he says, “And, yeah, you were absolutely fucking stunning.”

“I—oh,” Mike says, stunned. It doesn't sound negative, so Tom barrels on.

“Listen, I really don't have the words to talk about, like, making massive self discoveries while I was in their world. I was an idiot going in, and I’m probably not much less of one now. But I do know I was the _biggest_  fucking idiot when I pretended that time over the summer meant nothing. I was scared because I had no clue how we could work out from there, but… I mean, I still don't know. I can't see our future, but I think it was a mistake on my part to ignore the possibility of _us_ just because I was scared.

“I still care about you. _You_ you. A lot. Our lives are so different from their lives, but I still can't stand the thought of letting you go because it’d be hard, or because I waited too long. If I haven't already waited too long,” Tom tacs on, rubbed raw and sore at the thought.

Mike takes even longer to answer this time, and when does, it comes out quiet and slow and just as uncharacteristically honest. “You said—well, I guess he said, that he probably would have done the same thing if I hadn't gotten pregnant that first time. So I don't think we're fundamentally that far off. It still sucked a lot. Living with you was so hard, sometimes, but this last season… I missed you so much, even when him and I were talking all the time. I want your everything, all the time. Long distance isn't, like, the ideal, but, yeah, for you, I’d wanna try.”

“Really?” Tom says. The butterflies are hatching in his stomach, flying through him, lifting him far above the fear of _what now._

“Really,” Mike confirms. “Maybe I’ll wash out of the AHL, too, then come back to D.C. and be your trophy husband.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tom says, automatically. There's a pause, the sort that usually prompts Tom to find a way to end the call, but right now, he loves even the sound of Mike, _his_ Mike, breathing, and he doesn't really need to be out the door for another hour or two. “So, did I miss anything important?”

**Author's Note:**

> Near the end, there is discussion of past miscarriages, and a medical emergency that makes them fear another. No harm comes to Mike or the baby.
> 
> I can be found on [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com/) frequently and on [twitter](https://twitter.com/yikesave) much less frequently.


End file.
